


The Delivered Line In The Mighty Play

by Shock_Value



Category: Video Blogging RPF, mcyt
Genre: 1820s, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Call of The Void/High Place Phenomenom, Child Abuse, Child Labor, Depictions of Illness, Depictions of the Ocean, Eventual Happy Ending, George Dislikes Children, M/M, Mentions of Death, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Period-Typical Homophobia, Slight Superiority Complex, beta read by someone who can only compliment
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-15 15:08:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29685840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shock_Value/pseuds/Shock_Value
Summary: George immigrates to America to become a Doctor and write his plays.Call of the Void/High Place Phenomenon (for those of you who don't know) is when you think about doing something that could cause yourself harm or possibly death but you have no want to actually do it. A form of intrusive thought. It resembles thoughts of suicide/self harm but is not those things. Stay safe.
Relationships: GeorgeNotFound/Wilbur Soot
Comments: 4
Kudos: 14





	The Delivered Line In The Mighty Play

**Author's Note:**

> More characters and tags will be tagged as this is updated. A few tags are for future reference.
> 
> I'm very nervous posting this for some reason lmao

The cold Atlantic Ocean spread out in wide, deep expanses in front of him. Crisp and metallic ripples of heavy power rolling over itself in sweeps that made George dizzy in an intentional sense. A sense that made him want to lull off to the hushed splashes against the boat and slump over the cold railing he was leaning onto. 

If George had, he hardly believed anyone would notice. At least any of the ship's working men who busied themselves with working on the deck and holding mast ropes. While the boat had few immigrants there were still too many to keep track of personally and there was hardly any way to get to know George personally anyway, judging by the fact he had spent most of his time in the cramped sleeping quarters while the two folks he had to share his room with sauntered off to gamble away the rest of their savings. Other than that, George had only gone outside once before when it had been raining. It was hard to feel something when trapped on a boat and the rain had helped relieve some of that issue.

A couple of men pass behind him, partaking in friendly and overexaggerated conversation.

"...I had stumbled upon a few _sodomites_ in my mother’s old garden…"

George closes his eyes, taking a deep breath and swaying away from the railing.

Maybe, just maybe, there was a reason he didn't interact with the rest of the people on the blasphemous boat.

If he were to back up and ready himself to run towards the railing, no one would notice. If, from that point, he were to run and jump over, launching himself into the grey below, maybe someone will know his name. Maybe the news of his cold journey would be told to his mother. Maybe she'd forgive him. Maybe his sister would remember him the way he asked her to remember their father.

George runs a hand through his matted hair. Thoughts of leading himself to his own grave were the odd ones. The ones that had no base or backbone and ones that he'd never follow through with. He never knew whether or not they were backed up by some inner turmoil or if they were just something that happened. All he knew was that they had scared his mother when he mentioned them.

George wished he could get more of the salty air into his lungs. It was a comfort, the heavy, sweet tang to it reminded him of just outside of his hometown and the good times at the rocky shores.

He was going to miss that. His broken but comfortable home. George was considered quite the man there. There was never a reason to stay, though. Even the rest of his family didn't account for much compared to what he wanted to learn and experience in America. That was what he lived for anyway, the experience.

He just had to write his own name in the books instead of let everyone do that for him.

There was a tap against his arm, George turned to meet the face of a well worn but young member of the crew. The hat, George thinks, is what gives it away. The way it's just a little unfit as if it were a gift someone younger was less likely to correct and scuffed and worn in several places with seemingly immature care. George would have taken better care of it.

"Sir, we are asking that everyone hustles to their quarters, there are signs of a storm ahead and everyone should find cover out of the way of the crew."

The American accent seemed thrown together in reckless patterns that could have made a very disorganized filing scheme. George wondered if he'd meet any other Americans who spoke like that.

"Thank you, but-" George glances to where the kid touched his shirt, grime and debris darkened the already somewhat dusty white. "-wash your hands before touching me." He adds with a pointed nod before adding again,"Please."

The boy awkwardly acknowledges the criticism, mindlessly rubbing at his fingers and tipping his head. "Sorry, sir."

George watches the boy scamper off, maybe he had been harsh. He had not truly meant to be so blunt. He couldn’t change the past though, and this was not an instance where he would.

George looks back towards the ocean but this time sets his eyes on the clouds above. They looked a lot heavier and darker than in the past few days. This is when the ocean chill truly hits him, the cold of his fingers becoming an annoyance. He'd love to sit on the deck for the storm, maybe in spite of the boy who ruined his shirt sleeve or maybe for the experience.

Back in his quarters he recognised the cramped feeling. It was nothing like the openness of the sky and the wind it let roam freely. Nothing like the great plateau of skin-biting water.

George readies himself for the next hour of distracted play-writing and self indulgence for his mind to come up blank. It takes several minutes for him to gather himself on the past lines and stage direction.

He had hoped he'd be alone for a longer amount of time but his bunkmates had come back before he could finish writing the first stage directions of the day in the journal he keeps his plays in. His progress on the current one had slowed considerably since entering the boat with the swaying and new surroundings. Much different than the lake with the chirping birds he used to sit at.

George would have locked the door if it had a lock, but even then he thinks Ponk and Punz would have found a way in anyway. George doesn't think either of them were smart enough to know how to pick a lock but he could definitely see shattered wood all over the floor.

"Well, Georgie, head in your book again?"

"Watch out Ponk." Punz butts in, "If you're not careful he'll write you a painfully dramatic death."

George makes a protestant noise, turning to see them both giggling away, probably half a bank broker. George never liked it when someone poked fun at him for something he enjoys doing. He knew people who could handle it well and turn the joke back and laugh with their friends but he couldn't manage.

"Bad joke." George tries to tell them, but they seem to be having the time of their life watching him shrill in discomfort, "Still have enough money to get to Canada?"

" _George_ ," Punz settles in a chair at a small table in the corner of the room, shuffling through his pockets to pull out multiple bags of money and gambling chips, far more than what George saw when he had first experienced the two men.

" _Holy_ \--"

"We've played the whole house."

"You--"

"We aren't imbeciles."

George raises his eyebrows, shock from before still shown on his face, "I didn't think you were."

Ponk throws a shilling at him, hitting him in the chest and landing on the floor next to his foot. Heads.

"Yes, you did."

George sends them a smile, mocking innocence and picks up the coin, gesturing to them, "Thanks."

"Not like you'll need it with that doctor you're going to live with." Ponk teased George.

George turns back to his journal, not really wanting to talk about his future. It was something that scared him and talking about it meant dwelling on all the possibilities that something could go horribly wrong.

"I bet you he's rich."

"I feel like I'd lose any bet I'd make with either of you."

Out of the corner of his eye, George can see Ponk flash a large, sparkling, smile his way and Punz shake his head and an almost fond matter.

"Probably," Punz says before slapping the top of the small table and standing up, walking to his small cot in the corner that he basically fought Ponk for, he had told George. "I'm going to sleep the rest of my night away, and since Ponk won't remember, I will tell you this now." Punz pulls off his boots, grunting with a slight effort, "We have three more days on this _shit_ boat and if you burn out any more candles that _I_ said I'd pay for, _you_ will be the one paying for them."

An empty threat, George knew that, but Punz had the power to make a perfect shot miss by three meters and it didn't miss George.

George flashes one of his tight smiles and bites out a quick phrase of understanding. He blew out the candle shortly after and settled on his cot earlier than any night before.

Just as George started to think he'd never set his eyes on land again, the ship docked in the northern shore of Penobscot Bay facing the small Searsport settlement.

George found he almost didn't want to get off.

He hadn't fallen in love with life on the sea and he didn't want to go back to Europe, he just found that the rest of his journey in front of him was a lot scarier than what he prepared himself for.

"Well Georgie, I hope we never see you again," Ponk says, stepping next to him and knocking him out of his daze.

"Oh really? Never thought you to be rude."

"Hey hey hey." Ponk starts, waving a hand in the air, "It's not that I don't love your company and have enjoyed the time we've spent together, it's just even Maine is a little too far South for my comfort."

George nodded, understanding Ponk the best he could but also understanding that he himself could never actually recognise the pressures from being different. George was, afterall, just like everyone else.

The majority of the time anyway. Even during those times where he was lost in the sea of confusing feelings, at least he could stay quiet. Ponk could not hide the color of his skin or his accent and it seemed to be written out in bold, slanted handwriting.

"Well, it was nice meeting you on this boat and I'm glad the encounter is ending on this boat.'

Ponk smiled at him with mirth and good wishes. They see Punz at the end of the boardwalk the ship docked at.

"You better get going," George tells Ponk, "tell Punz I liked you more."

"Will do, my friend. I wish you luck with learning."

George waves at Ponk as he walks away with his dusted and hole-ridden shoes.

"I wish you luck with passing the border."

In that moment the shilling they had given him had hung heavy in his pocket and he made a silent decision with himself. Even though sentimentality was so disgustingly inconvenient, he'll keep the shilling with him through his journey and hope to end with it, just like that quick friendship had started and ended on that boat.

George had told himself he wouldn't lurk in the old and ended, so he found his way off of the boat.

His first steps in America were sluggish and unused to solid ground and he wouldn't have it any other way.

George finds himself outside the door of a somewhat decently large estate with more paned windows than George had seen on the building on the long walk from the harbor. It had started to drizzle cold, mid-spring rain and although not a lot, it still dampened George’s clothes to an uncomfortable point. He’s probably formed quite a few rashes from the wet fabric. His luggage had been light but his arm was starting to become sore.

“Nice to meet you in person, George.” Dream says holding out his hand to be shaken, they were a little dirty and if it were anyone other than George’s mentor and previously idolized pen pal, he wouldn’t have taken the hand to shake.

“It’s wonderful to be in your esteemed presence,” George tells him with a hopefully more humorous than tight smile. The last thing George wanted to do was give a bad first impression.

Dream only offers a laugh that peaks twice at two different tones. It sounds like something you might give out of pity but it would work for George. It reminds George of the boy on the boat for some reason.

“Here-- Come in, we should get you out of the rain. Y’know, this is one of the first rains since Maine became a state, a particularly dry season so far.”

The inside of the main room was warmed by a fire, lit by candles and a single arc lamp stationed against a wall. Definitely a nice place to live and learn and, although disappointing, it was the first time he found himself feeling safe in America.

"This is nice."

"Yes! I spent quite a while getting this house for us. We live with an old factory owner's son, you see. The likely-hood of you seeing him, however, is pretty slim. He's hardly around."

George didn't know anything about that. He feels like that should have gone through a letter.

"The only thing he told me when he gave it to me was that I should keep this place clean in in very good condition. He claims he doesn’t know if he will want to show off the house to anyone, but I think it’s his obvious need for perfection and order."

George noticed as Dream talked he'd hit his legs with his large hands in an awkward and fidgeting way. He also recognized the extreme lack of dust and dirt around the house that seemed almost unnecessary.

"That sounds fine to me." George told Dream.

Dream smiled wide and clapped him on the back of his shoulder, the previous awkward demeanor leaving him, "I'm glad."

In an entirely George way, he found himself finding haven in his cotton bed and bedsheets and small but warm and simple room. He enjoyed the way he could write his plays and stories and go over the soft pages of his learnings tucked away from the world's people and sky's smoke.

He didn't enjoy wandering. He didn't like feeling unfamiliar with things. George just wanted to learn from a skilled medical professional and live in a world yet to be sullied by past times and horribly written legacies.

Although Dream was his teacher, George felt it was inappropriate to let him teach him of life in America and soot covered windows.

_William Buchan's Treatise on the Prevention and Cure of Diseases_ was the first book that Dream gave George himself.

Over the table with a simple breakfast of apples and bread and few words between them. They didn't need words to understand each other. Dream and George had found they were strung closer than they could have imagined when they're only interaction was through written words.

George had seen excerpts from the book. It wasn't very new, nearly sixty years old in fact, but if Dream was giving it to him it must have been something of use. The leather cover looked quite nice against the wooden grain of the stained table.

He notices an ink smudge on his left thumb, a shame he misused it.

_They share a look. Portrayed as something beyond an average show of men._

George would have to change that if he ever thought to get it to a stage. For now, however, while it was just for himself and his heart, it was how it should be. He wrote to feel, not to please.

He also wrote for everyone other than him at the same time. He wanted people to enjoy what they could find in his work.

"George?"

George looked across the table to Dream who had seemed to just finish eating his bread, "Yes, Dream?"

Dream poured George some more water as he had just finished his first cup, he set the pitcher on a tray, a sign it was going back to the kitchen soon.

"I'm going to be going to meet someone in the lower town. You do not have to go and you would probably be most comfortable staying here but the choice is yours."

"I'll stay here." George says.

The outside didn't fit him well, George found. He could hardly pick up writing supplies without almost making a fool of himself. 

He thinks back to the ink, "Would you be able to get me more ink while you're out? I'm almost out."

Dream gives him a polite smile, "I can. You seem to love to write your plays. A very admirable thing."

George gives Dream a humorous exhale, "Thank you."

"I'd love to read what you write some day."

"I know." George tells him. He does know. Dream loves to tell him. He's probably told him about a dozen times since Dream found out about him writing.

There's a pregnant silence. It's comfortable, a proper end to a conversation topic.

"You do hate going out, don't you?" Dream asks.

George raises his eyebrows, "Of course."

"You lock yourself in here as if you're royalty, don't you King George?"

George makes eye contact with Dream, "You're insufferable."

Dream laughs, a hearty laugh. One of the few George liked to hear.

"I'm leaving in an hour so no class today. You're learning fast anyway so you should be well off. Hopefully you can read some of the book while I'm gone?"

George nods, "I can do that."

"Good."

George eats his breakfast and flips through the pages of the book, taking in little to nothing.

There's a knock at the door, something that George did not want to be present for.

"I can get it." Dream says.

"Do you mind if I excuse myself for this?"

"Go ahead. If it's something you should be here for I can come get you."

George nods, "Thank you."

As Dream leaves, George follows. They both exit the room but split ways by the hallway that leads to George's bedroom. George lightly knocks his hand against the doorknob of the door directly before his own. It's a small closet.

George can hear the opening of the front door and the beginning of a conversation before he closes his own door behind him. He spends a small amount of time noticing the mahogany detailing around the room and the connection he feels with the place. He loves being there. He felt at home with his friend and teacher in their house.

The conversation had been too quiet to hear through the door but George notices it's volume rise and comes through the heavy wood. It sounds like an argument and George is glad he left when he had the chance.

It took multiple minutes for the arguing to die down and quite a few more for the knock on his door and the calling of his name to bring him out of his room. George eventually finds himself face to face with a man seemingly too young to be arguing with anyone. He seemed far too full of himself with his blue-- purple thread lined tailcoat and newly shined shoes. He had a serious mask adorned to his face but George liked to think he could see through it at least somewhat. George liked to think that the sly and mischievous energy he got from the boy talked for itself.

He was tight lipped when he talked with Dream but when he turned to George his slight frown turned up into a friendly smile that George felt was only to make Dream uncomfortable and obviously unwelcomed.

"You must be George. Do you have a last name or would you like to be addressed by?"

The voice was almost shrill and George didn't know what he disliked about the man most.

"I'd prefer if that didn't follow me-- I apologize but who are you?"

The man laughs, a threat it sounded more like, turning to Dream halfway, "I see you haven't addressed the situation with him yet, Doctor, this will be very fun for me."

George shoots Dream a confused look, Dream seems upset.

"I am Purpled, the owner of this building and a factory downtown. Doctor over here was offered the opportunity to live in this building if he could cure my father of his sickness. For a short while after Dream helped my father, he was in a wonderful condition so Dream got this house and a small amount of money as an offering of good and best wishes.

"About a month ago, which I believe is when you appeared, my father fell ill again. I threatened Dream with an eviction if he could not cure my father again, do you think you can guess what happened? I do believe it is quite clear with the emotional intent I behold in _my_ drawing room."

George was in a quiet disbelief.

_Where would they go?_

"Purpled-- please! I told you that I can not cure this. I told you that I am highly certain that this is an event where the use of poison was used with arbitrary intent--"

"Yet the symptoms were the exact same as before?"

"They were _not_ \--"

"Be quiet, Doctor. You're making a spectacle of yourself in front of your student. If I were you I'd be preparing to find somewhere else to reside."

Dream was seething, George didn’t have to see him to recognize that. If there was one thing George learned from living with Dream is that many things got to him and he can very easily explode. George _hated_ seeing Dream explode and was very glad it was never because of something George had done.

Although, in this state, Dream seems to forget about a few things, what he should and should not do.

“Well George, it’s just you and me.”

Leaving the room and George and Purpled alone together was definitely the wrong thing to do.

“It would seem so.”

A lengthy silence is put between them. Something unhealthy and uncomfortable. George stands still, Purpled circling the room picking at small dust patches. The idea that George could have left and started packing did not come to him until the far too threatening boy started speaking again.

“My father died this morning, and I do not blame you for that. All of my hurt and blame is definitely far more focused on the doctor.” Purple paused, “I would offer you a place to live due to the misfortunes I’m putting you through but frankly that is not something I am inclined to offer so instead I will offer you a job at my textile spinning building until you find either a better one or you’re able to sit around and look pretty again.”

George hoped not everyone would be this rude and unwelcoming when they first met him. He hoped it was just this one man or the circumstances he was under were the source of the bitterness and general dislike for the world around him. George found that he was lost in a sea of misfortune when it came to people he met and when he first met Dream he’d thought things would change and be better. Maybe Dream was just the only lighthouse in his personal ocean metaphor.

“And, because you are taking my job offer,” George had, in fact, not yet said anything about doing such a thing, “I will also give you some advice that I’d heavily suggest you listen to.”

Purpled’s circling and eventually spiraled down to George, the monument in the middle. Purpled leans over George’s shoulder and George crooks his head slightly to the side for more space.

“I may be young, but I know a chiseler when I see one. Dream is no special doctor of the west so find someone else to learn under here or go back to your glory country.”

Purpled leans back and George brushes at the shoulder the man had leaned over, trying to get across some disrespect. Purpled only smiles at him and puts his hands behind his back.

“Now I have a funeral to go plan and money to inherit but you better hustle and get your things packed. If you ever need me when on the job, go ahead and just ask for me.”

Purpled pulls a hand out from behind him, a paper folded neat, ready to be delivered it seemed. He offers it to George who takes it and takes a long look at it.

 _‘Welcome to the family.’_ is printed at the top and it has an address on it.

“Welcome to the family, you start bright and early next Monday.”

Purpled leaves him and the house as George gets to his room to start packing his things up. He was extremely confused and almost angry. He had no idea what had just happened, only that it did and he had no idea how his life could have taken a bigger turn.

“I’m sorry George.”

George gave Dream a half lidded and tired look.

“Let’s just leave here. You said your friend might let us stay with him?”

“He is fairly hospitable but he lives in a much different part of town.”

“Just take us there.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Kudos and comments are greatly appreciated.
> 
> Tumblr - Shock-Value


End file.
